


the cleanse

by 249b_east_35th



Category: The Purge (Movies)
Genre: Gen, Gore, Trope Bingo Round 14
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-06
Updated: 2020-07-06
Packaged: 2021-03-05 03:34:10
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 443
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25107808
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/249b_east_35th/pseuds/249b_east_35th
Summary: Trope Bingo fill for Original Characters square.0700. The Purge ends.0701. The Cleanse begins.
Kudos: 1
Collections: Trope Bingo: Round Fourteen





	the cleanse

**Author's Note:**

> I was watching Anarchy and had this vision of a team of people without any other opportunities who get paid to clean up the streets after the Purge. Does it work with canon? Fuck knows but it was fun to write.

Siren rings out. It’s the sound we’ve been waiting for.

_ Suit up _ .

Zip black coveralls over bulletproof vests. Tuck tablets into pockets, pistols into holsters. 

S&W 5946, 9mm.

_ Roll out _ .

Shaw leads the team to the van. Plain black paintjob. Meant to make the armored vehicle less conspicuous. 

_ Thank fuck I’m not on the subway team this year. Hell of a mess. _

End of a cigarette glows as Rodriguez inhales. 

_ Those things will kill you. _

_ I don’t think I’ll make it that long. _

The first one comes soon.

It’s a whimpering heap of twitching limbs and the stink of vomit and piss.

An X marked on our screens. Med assist req, civ, non-emergency. An emergency marker is a coveted privilege.

_ Man, glad I bought shares in that construction company. Gonna make bank. _

The front half of the car is crumpled like a toy crushed up and thrown away by the hand of a giant toddler. Hit a building.

The bumper is wrapped in chains. At the end of the chains is two hands. 

A steel cap turns the body over. The nose is smeared across the cheek, jaw scraped off to let bone shine wetly in the sunlight. Dragged a few miles on rough asphalt.

Decker’s face is white above his coveralls. He tears his gaze away. 

Thick, wet retching as the breakfast his girl cooked at six this morning splatters on the pavement.

He’s new.

There’s gold on the wrists underneath the chains.

_ That’s a Rolex, baby _ .

_ You shouldn’t. _

_ I’m sorry, do we have a pension plan I don’t know about? He’s not using it. _

Blood bubbles from what was once a nose.

_ He’s still alive. _

_ Won’t be for long. _

_ Shouldn’t we— _

_ Do I look like a fucking paramedic? _

_ Tag and bag, boys. _

It’s a heavy load to haul into the back of the van. We don’t hear the grunt when it lands.

We press on.

Some are still out. Some haven’t stopped.

_ Purge is over. Drop your weapons _ .

His mouth opens wide in a shriek. He has no tongue.

_ Drop your weapon or you will be prosecuted. _

Hot blood sprays, taste of iron on the tongue, his head turned to a fine mist by Shaw’s shotgun.

_ That ain’t regulation, man. _

_ Fuck regulation. Goldstein’s got kids. _

The sight of the van closes doors and pulls blinds down. We are the second coming.

Fuck the NFFA.

The red isn’t all spray paint. The scent lingers, burning in the sinuses. 

Ancient pressure washer sputters to life and the graffiti bleeds into nothingness. 

Crumpled was-a-person at the foot of the wall. Shells crunch underfoot.

_ Tag and bag _ .

There are always those who resist progress.


End file.
